


The Truth About Thirteen-Year-Old Sex Gods

by TheSpaceCoyote



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:29:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpaceCoyote/pseuds/TheSpaceCoyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short lil' follow up to the other fic of similar yet slightly different title. The aftermath of the awk-smut, told from John's point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Truth About Thirteen-Year-Old Sex Gods

**Author's Note:**

> Just a lil' something I decided to whip up, because I felt the other fic could use a lil' more context and John POV. In which one gay thirteen year old reflects on the relationship he has with another gay thirteen year old.

Truth is, you don't really know when you realized you had feelings for one ridiculously OTT-coolkid otherwise known as Dave Mother-fuckin' Strider (his emphasis, not yours). Truth is, you don't even really know what your feelings are now--you _want_ to say love but that sounds so young and dumb and like you're jumping to conclusions and maybe in the end you aren't even for real gay and you're just desperate for someone to want you like that--

 

But whatever the truth is you can't deny that you just basically had almost-sex with Dave Strider and that has to mean something, right?

 

Right.

 

But you figure it's okay to just enjoy the moment, so after you're done cleaning both yourself and Dave off you snuggle back under the covers and pull them up over the two of you, giggling as you tuck the baby blue bedspread under his chin, making Dave snort and roll his eyes. You pat his face like the doofus you are before you duck your hand back under the covers and, after dancing around it for a moment, you reach down and forcefully grab his hand, lacing your clumsy fingers together.

 

Dave's hand is much bigger than yours, big enough to almost fully engulf your own tiny, spindly one. When you run your fingers over his hand you can feel the thin ropes of scars that run along Dave's knuckles and over his palm--you've seen 'em before, briefly graced over them whenever you've held his hand before. But you don't ask questions about them, because even being best bros and now fuckpals doesn't entitle you to ask certain questions. So you don't really know how Dave got the scars, and you don't really know how he feels about them.

 

Actually, you don't really know how Dave feels about a lot of things. There's a lot of stuff that's hidden when it comes to the other teenager, a lot of things that still lurk below the surface. Dave is like a cake--no, wait he's like a lasagna--no he's actually more like an onion and really where are all these food metaphors coming from? Getting sexed up must make you hungry.

 

Anyway, you're point is that Dave has a whole ton of _layers_. There's outside Dave, the ironic coolkid shell he puts on which lays the irony and sick beats out thick.  Then underneath there is the Dave that you've gotten to know, the Dave who is okay with showing a little bit more human emotion outside of being some cool sleek rapping cyborg, the Dave who treats you with a lil' bit of tenderness and romance whenever you two are alone and away from prying eyes. That's the Dave that you've come to know, the Dave that you just had almost-sex with.

 

But you can't shake the feeling that that's definitely not all there is to Dave--that there's another velvety-red layer of cake underneath the tender-coolkid frosting. Because you can tell that Dave is still plenty restrained whenever he's around you, and his words still carry that careful, measured quality about them, like they've been rehearsed over and over again. Dave's words and rhymes are like goose-stepping militia men, all armed to the teeth and ready to defend the vulnerable inner sanctum of Genuine Bonafide Strider Emotion. You're not nearly as dumb or aderpable as everyone seems to think you are, and you pick up on this, these little Dave-quirks that betray the fact that he's not being entirely truthful with you and _shit,_ sometimes you feel like Rose doing all this psychoanalyzing, albeit without the fancy sounding lingo to back yourself up. 

 

But you do wish that somehow Dave would let down the facade, because that would be nice and you will admit that you want things to be _nice_. 

 

Snuggling with Dave after some awkward but in the end satisfying almost-sex is nice. Feeling warm and comfy and cozy and holding his hands (even with the scars) is nice. Gently slipping away into sleep with your head nodding against an already half-snoozing Strider is nice. 

 

Dreaming is nice, too. Dreaming about the future is sometimes scary but you don't find it to be so as much this time, because in your dream you have Dave and you two have a nice suburban house: white picket fence and bricks walls and house plants and a dog in the front yard and all and you corral your little kids around while Dave looks on with a smile and a _completely_ unbefitting pipe and suit and fedora, but it's your dream and as such you have some license to imagine weird things, but anyway it's all happy and fun and _nice,_ and subconsciously you know that someday you're gonna want this, someday you _want_ this--

 

But, you suppose, all that can wait until later. 


End file.
